


To Be A Person

by Spitshine



Series: HTP Fills [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ace!Rollins, Bad Stories for Bad People, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobia, M/M, Punitive Rape, Rehumanization, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt over at the trash meme: So sometimes Hydra needs the Asset to act like a person for long enough to make a kill or whatever. Someone--Rumlow and Rollins, preferably--have to dress and groom the Asset and teach him how to act. Except teaching the Asset how to flirt and be charming brings out the old Bucky personality (though maybe not the memories), so you have R+R with their gross no homo toxic masculinity trying to teach charming Bucky Barnes how to act like A Real Man.</p>
<p>+weird Asset knows how to shower and dress but will only do exactly as much as he's told because he's kind of a defiant asshole still<br/>++Rumlow and Rollins being kind of weirded out by the whole thing, especially as Bucky starts acting more like himself but they have no idea where it's coming from--like, did you teach him that faggy shit? No, I thought you did<br/>+++corrective rape after the Asset practices flirting with them a little too well</p>
<p>http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1634.html?thread=3061090#cmt3061090</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be A Person

**Author's Note:**

> Someone left just the nicest comment on this and it popped up in my email and I was reading through the story like "wow, this is pretty goo--wait, didn't I write this?" and then I remembered I had never actually posted this here. So thank you, anonymous trash friend, for your kind words and helpful reminder.

“It lacks armor.” The asset's voice is flat, emotionless, only a hint of a Russian accent. His fingers, though, are twitching, and that is never a good sign.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that's kinda the point. Pierce wants you to look normal. Act normal. Like a person.”

The asset settles down at the sound of his old handler's name and slips his arms into the sleeves of the button-down. And stops. He just stands there, glaring. Anyone else would look harmless, foolish even, pouting in nothing but white crew socks, a half-on shirt, and the gray boxer briefs that Jack's research had deemed most normal. And Christ on a stick, if he never has to google the phrase “most popular men's underwear” again, it'll be too soon. He wants to stab whichever fucking noodle-armed nerd thought it would be a good idea to automatically return image results along with the normal ones. It was all so... bulgey.

“You have to finish getting dressed now.”

“No.”

“No?!”

“That is the technicians' purview.”

“Oh, for the love of—Brock! Put your fucking cancer stick out and get back in here. You're the one who got assigned to play god damn dress up with the asset, why the hell am I stuck doing it?”

Brock strolls in, calm as anything, a laugh still ticking up the corners of his mouth. “Because I'm the CO.”

“You are not.” Jack can feel his eyes roll, hear how petulant he sounds, but he cannot summon the shits-to-give to do anything about it. Pierce had told _Rumlow_ to do this in the first place, so what the hell was he doing here? What was he, Brock's little bitch? No. No, he was not.

“Maybe so, but we can't very well have Rogers in here with Ice Ice Barbie, now can we? Soldier! Button that shirt!”

The asset blows out heavily, sending his bangs flying. “Maintenance of the asset, up to and including cleaning and-”

“You think I've never read the fucking manual?” Rumlow flicks the switch on his baton. “I said: Button. Your _fucking_. Shirt. Soldier.”

The asset buttons. Jack wants to punch something.

[-]

“You have to smile, soldier.”

The asset flashes his teeth.

“Don't think about killing anyone while you do it.”

The asset stretches his mouth out, very wide and very thin.

“Look friendly.”

The asset keeps the grimace, reaches out a hand and says, very stiffly, “Hello, my friend.”

Jack sighs and squeezes his temples. He is going to fucking murder Rumlow for handing off this bullshit assignment while he “just runs this report up to R&D.”

“Friends shake hands. I have seen them.”

“Not like that, they don't.” Jack used to have friends. He used to shake hands. Not any more. Now there is only murder. So much murder. All of the murder.

[-]

“Good job, Rollins. That smile is... charming, kinda. I mean, faggy as hell, but it was you teaching him so I can't say as I'm surprised.”

“Didn't want me to do it, shoulda done it yourself. Like you were-”

“Stop whining, you little bitch. Tryin' to compliment you here.”

“Not very well,” Jack huffs and moves closer to the one-way glass. It's been weeks, but the asset will finally get himself dressed without being micromanaged every step of the way—turns out the chair can implant procedural memory but not mannerisms, can teach him how to button a shirt but not how to look like a person while he does it. The asset steps up to the mirror, runs a hand though his hair. His smile really is charming. Despite everything, Jack's a little proud.

“Holy shit, is he primping? The Winter god damn Soldier, fixing his hair?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Like you're one to talk, Princess. I _know_ you need all kinds of help to get it up in the morning.”

[-]

“Hel _lo_ , sweetheart.” The asset stalks closer, the predatory slink of his step at odds with the friendly drawl of his words. The dissonance sets the hair on the back of Jack's neck prickling.

“Rumlow? Get your ass back in here, something is definitely not right.” Jack backs slowly away from the asset, not breaking eye contact. He's volatile, not quite the ghost of Hydra but far from the quote-unquote normal human Pierce had ordered for the next mission. “Brock!”

“I'm right here, don't get your panties in a—now that's just fucked.”

“Ya think? Help me out here.” The asset had followed when Jack backed up; he now has the agent pinned against wall, twining around him almost like... lovers. Jack shivers in distaste.

“I dunno, buddy, looks like he wants to help you out with that.”

“I'm not a fucking homo.”

“Don't need to be a homo to get your dick sucked, huh?”

“Is that what you want?” the asset breathes into Jack's ear, one hand curving around his neck and the other sliding across his hip. “I can do that, I can make it so good for you, doll.”

“I swear to god, motherfucker, if I ever find out that you put him up to this—stop laughing, you asshole! It's not funny.”

“It really, really is though. C'mon, just let him. Look how eager he is.”

It's true. Unfortunately. The asset's face plays at shy innocence but the look in his eyes can only be described as hungry.

“Soldier! Stand down!”

The asset laughs, low and dirty. Jack imagines that to anyone else, it would sound seductive. “Me? I'm no soldier, I just haul crates. I can pretend if you want though... _sir_.” The asset is purring now, stroking across Jack's shoulders like he's never seen arms before, rubbing up against him like a cat in heat.

“Did you teach him to do this?”

Rumlow's laughter cuts off abruptly. “The fuck you trying to say? You think I taught him this gay shit? You think I'm some kinda faggot? A goddamn fairy? Is that what you're telling me?”

Jack isn't scared often, but when he is, it's usually because he unintentionally crossed someone who outranks him. Order is comforting; he doesn't like to buck it. “N-no, I just thought-”

“What's got your friend so worked up, huh? Maybe he thinks you're hogging all the fun. It's okay. I can take care of you both, I got plenty-a steam in me. I could do this all day.”

Jack can't help the shudder of revulsion that runs though him when the asset drops to his knees with deadly grace. “So, uh, this is maybe a weird time to tell you, but I don't really, you know, do this...”

The asset stops working Jack's fly and flicks his eyes up, smirking. “That's fine by me. You can pretend I'm a dame, call me someone else's name, turn the lights off, I don't mind. Long as I get that big dick in me, I don't care what you do.”

“No. I mean, sex. At all. I don't do... that.”

If anything, the asset's smirks widens. “Aw, this your first time, baby? You're in for a real treat. Not to brag or nothin', but I'm good at what I do. Real good. I'll make it extra special on account of it bein' such a special occasion. I can make you feel good, I promise.”

“No, I—it's not about that, I just-”

“Wow, you really are a homo.”

Jack yanks his gaze away from where his flaccid penis is disappearing into the asset's mouth to side-eye Rumlow. “Excuse me? Are you not hearing me turn down a blowjob from a dude? In what world does 'doesn't have sex' translate to 'fucks other dudes'?”

“Uh... in the world where not liking pussy makes you a god damn fairy. Duh.”

“It's not... I just don't like _people_. Not like that.”

Rumlow snorts but if he says anything else, Jack can't hear it over his own choked-off moan as he gets hard so fast he can feel the blood rushing south. He wasn't lying, he doesn't do this, hasn't even tried for years. The physical sensations are fine, but the closeness, the intimacy, they just make him uncomfortable. On the rare occasion he needs to get off, his hand has always been adequate.

Adequate, sure, but not like this. He's never felt anything like this. The dizziness fades as the pleasure ramps up and if he shuts his eyes and focuses on just the sensation—Christ, the sensation—he can pretend that there are no people involved at all, no touching, no Rumlow, no asset, no creepy holding cell with buzzing fluorescent lights, just the darkness behind his eyelids and the hot suction pulling his dick in deep, again and again. There's something firm and wet undulating against the underside, flicking against his slit, circling the head that has to be the asset's tongue—but no, don't think about that, don't think about anything, just feel. Just feel it, how good it is, setting his nerves on fire, making him harder than he's ever been.

He loses track of time, but he has a feeling it's not very long—and that Rumlow will be mocking him for that fact very, very soon—before the asset's flesh hand closes over his balls, one finger sneaking back to tease at his rim, and he shoots off, head knocking hard against the wall as he shakes his way through what is without a doubt the most intense orgasm of his life.

His eyes flicker open just in time to see the asset pull off with a loud slurp, lick his lips ostentatiously, swallow, and dive back in with a wink to start licking Jack clean. Sensitive as he is, it feels so good it hurts. “Fuck, no, god, it's too much, you gotta stop, shit.”

The asset hums in a way that must be intended to soothe. “It's okay, doll, I got you. Just lemme take care of you, okay? I'll be gentle. Get you nice 'n clean. Just 'cause we ain't at a bathhouse doesn't mean it's suddenly not rude to put a fella away sticky.” And then he swallows around Jack's softening cock; Jack can't help it, he sobs at the overstimulation as his legs give out under him

[-]

Jack's still slumped against the wall, eyes more closed than open and half-heartedly batting at the asset's head, too drained from the all-too-closeness to just order him back, to stop nuzzling at his sticky groin, when Rumlow breaks the near silence. “Well, I guess it's about time to teach this faggot a lesson.” His stun baton buzzes to life; Jack jerks his head up at the sound. “Pierce asked for a person, not a fucking comedumpster.”

And then there's air, cold and uncomfortable, curling in around Jack's sac where the asset had just been happily nosing around, and that's Brock's hand fisted in the asset's hair, yanking the head back so his other hand can bring the baton in hard against the thin skin of the asset's throat.

The asset caterwauls, that's the only word Jack can think of, a long animal sound that breaks off into a sniffly, “Please no please don't I didn't do anything please I'll do anything just don't please don't,” but Brock doesn't listen. Brock never listens, not when it comes to not hurting another person. He brings the baton in again, buzzing louder so Jack knows he's amped it up, cracks it down in the same place while he brings his foot up into the asset's ribs, a kick Jack can hear almost better than he can see it.

The asset hangs limply by his hair, whimpering, for a long moment before Rumlow throws him over onto his side, and that's how Jack knows it all worked. They managed to get through all the soldier's programming to whatever broken little seed of humanity was still in there, because the asset never complains, not about pain or punishment. The asset doesn't beg, doesn't whine. The asset takes anything from double rations to a punch to the temple with the same blank-faced acceptance. He might grit his teeth, if it gets especially bad, but Jack has seen him take worse—has personally given him worse—without a sound or a flinch.

“On your knees, faggot,” Rumlow snarls. “That's where you're happy, isn't it? Better. Now. You have thirty seconds to get my cock wet before it goes in you, and because I'm so nice, I'll let you fingerbang yourself while I do it, work that filthy slut ass open before I ream you. Twenty nine. Twenty eight.”

Jack has never seen the asset move so fast, and that's saying something. He drops his pants and has two spit-glistening fingers pressing at his own hole before Brock gets to twenty seven, frees Brock's erection with only his mouth before the man can say twenty six, and Jack spends the next twenty five seconds watching the most horrifyingly grim-faced display of anal prep he could possibly imagine.

He wonders what had happened, back when the asset was still people, to make _this_ his ingrained response to the threat of rape. Wonders what kind of person wouldn't be satisfied with a little slut begging to choke on their dick.

He looks up at Rumlow, and stops wondering. Cap's the CO now, but even when Rumlow was the big man in charge, he'd always had something to prove. Someone to put down, someone to lord it over. He'd heard rumors, a long time ago, from a fresh agent that had died out in the field not long after—an accident, they all know the risks going in—that Brock had been seen going into one of those skeezy shops with the gloryhole booths, and yeah, it makes sense. Even more sense back in the 30s, back when it was actually illegal, that anyone the asset had come onto would instantly have something to prove.

Or disprove, more like.

“Eight... seven...” Rumlow counts down. “Six... you know what, I'm bored.” He jerks the asset back by the base of his neck, throws him to the floor. Jack watches, disgusted, transfixed, as the thick mucousal spit stretches almost two feet before it snaps. The asset's face is red and wet, eyelashes clumped together like he really has been choking, and his mouth yawns open, dark and wide like a crevasse when Rumlow drives in.

Jack's never done anal, never wanted to, but he knows the general protocol from locker room talk. Patience, lube, slow entry, time to adjust. Rumlow doesn't know or, more likely, doesn't care. He's buried to the hilt—and wow, Jack really did not need or want such good seats to this particular shitshow—in a half second and pulled all the way out the next.

The asset whimpers, begs, but Brock just grabs him by the throat and pulls him back far enough to get in a good face slap. “Shut up, you disgusting fucking faggot. You think I didn't see you prancing your fairy ass around? Didn't hear you begging for this?”

“No no no, not this, never this, please.”

“Shut. The. FUCK. Up. You were gagging for it. You're still gagging for it. You know it and I know it. You're not a person, you're a hole, and you're damn lucky I decided to use you like you were made to be used. You think I can't tell you're hard, nasty little bitch?”

Jack can see the change as something finally snaps in the asset. Rumlow apparently crossed a line in there somewhere. The asset whips his head around to glare defiantly and growls, “I'm not—it's not—I can't help it if you're nailing my prostate every thrust, you fucking bully. And you know how many guys can find that who aren't queer themselves, who don't know exactly what a dick in their ass feels like? None. Zero. Not with both hands, a map, and written directions, so stop pretending I'm the only punk in the room and get this the fuck over with.”

Even Jack swallows, throat clicking dryly, at what a monumental mistake that was. Rumlow's face is beet-red with anger, veins throbbing in his forehead, as he pummels the back of the asset's head and neck until he's a limp, sobbing heap on the floor, hips held up only by the dick pistoning into him and begging weakly for it to stop.

Which, surprisingly, it does. Something must be doing it for Rumlow, because he thrusts in hard enough to push the asset across the tiled floor, face leaving little red smears in its wake, and lets out a curt snarl, just one, before pulling out and—Jack can't see exactly, not at this angle, but that must have been the asset's undoubtedly wrecked asshole and that was _definitely_ the stun baton on its highest setting.

The asset yowls and curls into himself in a futile attempt at protection and even Jack, who doesn't exactly shy away from hurting others, has to let out a hiss in empathy.

Rumlow jerks his head up to meet Jack's eyes. “The fuck are you looking at?”

They stare at each other for a long moment, but it's Jack who looks away first, busying himself with tucking himself away, doing up his fly carefully as if any of the three of them have any modesty left to preserve. Any secrets left to keep.


End file.
